


Knowing The Risks

by Elayna



Series: The Risks series [4]
Category: White House Down (2013)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, Temporary Amnesia, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 14:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18390065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elayna/pseuds/Elayna
Summary: John is hurt and develops amnesia, forgetting the events of that day and his relationship with the Sawyers.





	Knowing The Risks

"Mr. Cale, how do you feel?"

Mr.? Why hadn't the guy said Sergeant? Accustomed to obeying, John blinked, thought about the question. "A little bit of headache but okay." He glanced around, trying to figure out where he was. From the man wearing the white coat standing by him, the type of bed he was laying on, and the equipment around him, a hospital. This hospital was a lot better than any treatment facility he'd known in Afghanistan though. Had he been so badly hurt that he'd been shipped home? But no, he could see his arms and legs, his limbs were intact—oh, thank god—and he had no apparent wounds. He was wearing casual clothes, gray sweats and a white sleeveless t-shirt, white athletic socks on his feet, not his military uniform. Had he been on leave? 

"Good, you've taken a while to wake up. There are some people very eager to see you and we'd really like to get one in particular out of the hospital. I'm sure you know who I mean. Do you want all three or just Melanie and Emily to start? Please say all three," the doctor added, putting his hands together in a mock prayer pose. "He's very hard to keep out."

"Melanie? Mel doesn't want to see me."

The doctor gave him an odd look. "I assure you she does. They've been waiting several hours now. They got here soon after the ambulance brought you in. I'll let them in, you'll see."

John felt the trace of bile in his throat. He remembered that last argument, grabbing her wrists—no, he was pretty sure Melanie didn't want to see him. The doctor wasn't waiting though, going to the door and opening it. "He's awake."

Emily came running in, followed by Melanie and some black guy John didn't know. Two other guys in black suits followed them in and stood, one on each side of the door, but John didn't pay them attention. His focus on his daughter, who was yelling, "Daddy!" She almost fell on him, giving him a hug. Sitting up, he wrapped his arms around her instinctively but was disconcerted by the wrongness. She was taller and older than when he'd last seen her. 

"Emily? What the hell?" He stared at her, even as she was trying to bury her face in his chest. He grabbed her shoulders, pushing her away. The black guy wrapped one hand around his bicep, saying softly, "John." Melanie was hanging back, her expression relieved. She looked the same at least, with her long, curly strawberry blond hair and 60s influenced clothes.

"Seriously, what the hell?"

"Mr. Cale, this is your daughter," the doctor said hesitantly. 

"No, she's really not." He could see Emily in this girl's face, but she was so much more mature. "I mean, she is—but she's not." 

"I think everyone had better leave, I need a few minutes with my patient." The doctor's instruction was abrupt, demanding.

"Emily." The black guy curled one arm around Emily's waist, a strange familiarity from a guy John had never even met. Was Melanie dating him? Not that she was under any obligation to introduce him to her boyfriend, but he was surprised she hadn't at least mentioned there was a new man in her life. "We'll be right outside." The guy urged Emily out as she stared at John with anguish and confusion. Melanie gave John a concerned look, but at least it wasn't an 'I'd like to stab you in the heart' glare. Everyone left, including the two silent guys in suits. John stared as the door closed behind them. 

"Doc, what the hell? Why am I even stateside? What happened to Emily? She's older." 

"Mr. Cale, where do you think you ought to be?" 

"Afghanistan. I've just started my third tour."

"Your full name?"

"Staff Sergeant John Francis Cale."

"I see. And who is president?"

"George Bush Junior."

"You seem to have some memory issues, Mr. Cale. You've been out of the military for a while now."

"I'm not in the army? What do I do?"

"You work for the federal government. I'm sorry, Mr. Cale, this is—going to be problematic. The fellow who was with Melanie and Emily, he's your boss."

"My boss? My boss knows my daughter that well?" 

"Yes. Look, some things need to be explained to you, and I think it might be best to have a family member catch you up. Let me send Melanie in."

"No, Melanie doesn't want to see me. We had a fight. Can you send in my boss?" The guy had looked competent, in an expensive suit. A boss who cared enough to visit an employee at the hospital— "It seems like we get along." They must, for him to even know John's family and be that comfortable holding Emily. 

"That's actually a really good choice, if that's who you want. I'm going to consult with a colleague from neurology. I'll be back."

It was only a few minutes and the black guy walked back in. "John." He squeezed John's bicep again, which seemed weirdly handsy but also comfortable. "The doctor says you have some memory issues, that you last remember being on your third tour in Afghanistan."

"Yes. He said you're my boss? I'm sorry, I don't remember you. What is my job now?"

"My name is James Sawyer. You're my bodyguard. That doesn't ring any bells for you?"

Bodyguard? He'd been finishing his college degree while in the army. He could certainly be a bodyguard but felt a little disappointment that he hadn't found something more professional. "James Sawyer seems like a familiar name. There's a politician of that name, isn't there?"

"Yes, that's me. You really don't remember me at all? Does the name Martin Walker mean anything? Emil Stenz? Carol Finnerty?"

"No, I'm sorry." John felt bad, for the guy definitely looked upset. He was trying to hide it, but he wasn't succeeding, his eyes troubled, his mouth a thin line. "So I work for what? Some sort of legislative security force?"

"John, I'm President of the United States. You work for the Secret Service."

John laughed, because that was absurd, no way could he have gotten into the Secret Service, that was a crazy dream, then swallowed the humor when the guy's expression stayed serious. "You're not joking, are you?"

"No, I'm not joking. I'm president and we're good friends. You were a member of the Capitol Police and ended up saving my life during a mercenary attack masterminded by a man named Martin Walker. You now work for Carol Finnerty, who is head of the Secret Service.

"Your daughter was one of the hostages during the attack and broadcasted videos of the attackers that helped identify them. The two of you are American heroes." 

"Fuck. I mean, wow. Mr. President." No wonder the doctor had been so strange, if he'd had the president waiting in the hallway. John and Emily were heroes? His baby girl who was looking like a teenager? She'd been held hostage? At gunpoint? That must have been terrifying for her. 

"You call me James."

"Really?"

"Well." The guy—James—Mr. President smiled ruefully. "Sometimes. You often insist on sir."

"Melanie—" John stopped, not knowing what he wanted to ask his boss, the freaking president of the United States, about his ex and what he might know about their relationship.

James gave him a look, like he wasn't sure what John wanted to ask but he was going to try to answer. "You and Melanie are friendly now. The two of you co-parent Emily well." 

"Good. We fought a lot, even after the divorce." They'd married for the sake of their baby, but their short marriage was plagued with bitter, repetitive fights about their relationship and future, and John's unhappiness with his inability to support them. 

"She's dating a man named Donnie Barker now. You all came up to Camp David recently, and we had a good weekend together."

"We spent the weekend at Camp David? Because I was working?"

James squeezed John's bicep again, his hand remaining curled around John's arm. "You weren't working that weekend. You were there as my friend and guest." 

The door swung open and the doctor started walking in, followed by another. James held up a hand. "Five more minutes, gentlemen."

And clearly he was president, because the two doctors stopped and walked back out. "I was a guest at Camp David?" John shrugged helplessly. Camp David was famous. People didn't just go hang out at the president's private retreat. "I don't even understand what's happened." 

"Is your stuff—Yes, here it is." James picked up a plastic bag with running shoes and a key, and pulled out a phone. "Here's something you need to know. Your passcode is 121367. You'll see that we text regularly. I'm under James. I want you to text me and text back whenever I text you."

His boss knew his passcode? What the hell kind of relationship did they have? John felt like the only thing in his brain was questions. "We text?"

"We do."

"I'm sorry, sir, but aren't you too important? You're president of the United States, right? You followed Bush Junior?"

"We're friends." James touched John's bicep again, stroking his hand up and down. He'd never had a boss touch him so much, and though it was kinda weird, it continued to feel right, not intrusive. "And you work for me. I expect you to trust me and listen to me until your memory comes back."

John looked at the plastic bag with his running shoes and a key on a wrist strap. He must have been jogging when he got hurt. A phantom sensation had him reaching to feel his neck. "I don't have my dog tags."

"No, John. You finished your third tour in Afghanistan, you came home and got a job with the Capitol Police for a while, and then you joined the Secret Service after saving my life," James said carefully.

Right, Afghanistan, Capitol Police, Secret Service, he needed to get those events through his brain and stop making the president repeat himself. "I'm sorry, sir. That just all seems—so unreal."

"I know it's a lot to adjust to, but it's very real. I want you to text me if there's anything you need to ask, anything at all. I may not be able to answer you immediately, but I will as soon as I can."

Bother the president because John's brain was all messed up? Yeah, he didn't think so, but he wasn't going to be so stupid as to tell that to the president. "Yes, sir. Could I see my daughter again? I feel bad about upsetting her. She's just—she's really changed."

"Kids do at that age. I have a teenager of my own. I should get back to the White House. I think the doctors will want to see you first, but I'll let Emily know you want to see her as soon as you can."

His hand slid down John's arm before dropping away, and his head tilted as he leaned toward John. For a second, John wondered if he was going to kiss him, but that would be crazy. It was insane enough, that he was Secret Service and both bodyguard for and friends with the president. They certainly wouldn't kiss. But then James hugged him, just a rough, fast hug, his cheek pressing against the top of John's head. "If the doctors clear it, you should look yourself up online. Just search John Cale and James Sawyer. That'll catch you up on events."

"I will, sir."

"Take care of yourself, John. Text me."

~~~

John didn't know him. John's eyes showed that he was troubled by his changed situation, but they looked at James only with confusion, no awareness. James was a stranger to his best friend, bodyguard and lover. John didn't know him or Alison or Carol. He had at least asked for James to tell him about what was going on, instead of Melanie, which gave James a strange satisfaction and hope. Maybe even without his memory, John's subconscious knew that James was important to him? 

He couldn't wrap John up in bubble wrap, he knew that. John's job was to take a bullet if needed, but James wanted to figure out how to protect him from vengeful old women and randomly getting knocked over by a badly driven car. 

James made a brief statement to the waiting members of the press, yes, John Cale had been hurt, yes again, he'd be fine, before settling into the presidential limo, which started heading to the White House. He pulled out his phone and dialed Carol. "John has amnesia. He thought he was still on his third tour of Afghanistan. He didn't know me or that I was president."

"Sir." Carol's voice was sad, immediately understanding how much James would be hurt by John viewing him as a stranger.

"The doctors are still figuring it out. I didn't stay for the prognosis. My presence was disrupting the hospital staff."

"I'll get in touch with his doctors. I'll need to know when he can return."

"I had Hernandez stay. He'll be contacting you. Let me know what you learn."

"Yes, of course. Do you need me to come back?"

"No, enjoy your weekend. I know how seldom you get away. I showed John his phone and told him to text, so he should stay in touch."

"Yes, sir. Sir, there's nothing in your texts—"

"Two friends, that's all. And John doesn't even remember that now." John was well aware of what could be requested through the Freedom of Information Act and was careful to never type anything potentially embarrassing. Now he didn't even know that they had a sexual relationship that needed to be hidden. 

"I'm sure he'll get his memory back soon, sir."

"I need him back." More than he even wanted to admit to himself. 

"I know, sir. I'll do all I can."

James said goodbye, staring at his phone. He needed to call Alison; she'd want to know the bad news too. He hesitated, not sure if he was ready to discuss it again yet. Why had John's memory gone back to Afghanistan? Was that somehow a better, safer time than now? Surely not, surely John's subconscious couldn't see regularly fighting for his life as a good time? John seemed happy with his life now, with his job, his relationship with his daughter, even his relationship with James and Alison, and their affair that had to be kept secret. 

Would John ever tell him if he wasn't happy? His loyalty was absolute. It was too easy to imagine that once they'd crossed that line and into the bedroom, John had felt that he couldn't renege from the implied obligation, couldn't say no to the man he'd sworn to serve and protect. Was his amnesia a retreat from the lies, back to a time before he'd ever met James? 

With a sigh, James called Alison, hoping that she would have a better perspective on what John's memory loss meant. 

~~~

Being ill had always annoyed John. Being sick made him impatient, restless, ready to be well and out having fun or being productive again. Causing trouble, when he was a kid. Feeling fine while everyone treated him like he was fragile was even more irritating. A few bruises on his side where he had been knocked down were nothing in his opinion. "Look, I'm fine," he snapped at the doctor. "Can you just release me?"

"You said you had a headache earlier."

"A tiny one, that's all, and being stuck here is not helping. I need—well, I need someone to show me where I live and then I'll be fine. The last thing I remember I was in Afghanistan. A burger and fries and a cold beer is what I want now."

The doctor gave him a level look and nodded. "Very well, we'll have you discharged. But remember—"

"Head pain beyond a mild headache I instantly contact you. My memory could come back any time. I should sit and relax if it does and I'm feeling overwhelmed. Don't stress if it doesn't come back immediately, stress won't help. Amnesia is just a weird thing and you guys don't really know what causes it or how to fix it. I got it. Believe me, I got it." 

"Okay. A nurse will be in shortly with your discharge paperwork."

"Thanks doc."

Actually getting to leave wasn't fast; paperwork was always tedious. But eventually John was able to put his shoes back on, key around his wrist and phone in his pocket, and walk out, Melanie, Emily, and one of the Secret Service guys at his side. "I'm sorry, you're—who are you?"

"Rafael Hernandez. You usually just call me Hernandez."

"What, you call me Cale?" That was familiar at least, like the military. 

"Yep."

Journalists were waiting as they stepped out of the hospital, which was freaking strange. Even weirder was that Emily stepped forward and brightly announced that her Dad was fine and had no comment. "You handle the press for me?" He asked quietly, as they walked through the parking garage.

"Mostly you just refuse to talk to them entirely. You always have."

"And they want to talk to me because the White House was attacked?"

"You saved the country, Daddy. You may have saved the world."

"You did too, right?"

"I helped, but you did most of it. Let me show you my blog."

Hernandez and Mel sat in the front of Mel's car while Emily showed him videos on her phone in the back. They stopped at a place that Mel said he liked, and picked up burgers. 

"That was like—the worst thing the country went through since 9/11," he said, stealing a few fries from one of the bags. He loved American food, the salt and grease of a crisp fry, a juicy cheeseburger loaded with all the extras, a thick milkshake or a cold beer. He felt like he'd been dying for this meal, even though for all he knew, he'd eaten cheeseburgers every night this week. 

"It would have been worse if you hadn't been there," Emily said, very matter-of-factly. His little girl was not only not so little, she was disconcertingly poised and articulate. He kept seeing flashes of her as he last remembered her, still so smart and adorable, but her face more rounded, immature. 

"I'm so proud of you, baby. You shouldn't have had to go through that."

She beamed at him, apparently having forgiven his earlier freak-out. 

Mel led the way upstairs to his apartment, where they settled around his dining table in the kitchen nook. The place wasn't big, though it looked like two bedrooms, and comfortable enough, casual and uncluttered. He remembered storing his stuff before that last tour. Paying rent on an apartment when he was always financially struggling seemed stupid. 

"Sawyer said we've been getting along?" John asked Mel, who had been completely calm and friendly with him.

"Yes, John, we're friends." She ruffled Emily's hair. "We agreed we did one great thing together, and we need to present a united front to keep her in line." Her tone was affectionate, joking, and Emily rolled her eyes at her mom, looking so much like a teenager that John's heart ached. He'd known he was missing much of her life being stationed in Afghanistan, but it had felt worth it, to support his family and protect his country. Now he was missing years of her life for no good reason. He wanted them back; he wanted his memories. 

"So really, you and I, we're—okay?" 

Maybe that hadn't been a good question to ask in front of an audience, but Melanie shrugged and seemed undisturbed. "Of course. You see Emily as much as you can. With your job, your schedule can be erratic, but you're always very good to keep me updated when you can't pick her up. You make all her school events that you can."

He had meant his relationship to Melanie, not how he parented his daughter. They had kept arguing regularly even after the divorce. Maybe they'd made up so thoroughly that Mel didn't even consider it worth mentioning? Or was she not complaining at him because one of his co-workers was with them? 

"It's my birthday on Saturday, Daddy. We're having lunch at the White House with the Sawyers. They were really sorry that they couldn't invite us to dinner, but I like the thought of lunch better. We'll have plenty of time to tour and see all the renovations afterwards."

"Seriously? That's just—so weird to me still."

"Get used to it," Hernandez said. "The president's going to want you back ASAP."

Hernandez said it like James particularly wanted John by his side. "He's got lots of agents, right?"

Mel and Hernandez both had expressions on their faces that John didn't understand, but Emily only smiled. "You saved his life, Dad. He likes you there."

John put down the last of his cheeseburger. It was delicious and absolutely what he'd wanted every day in Afghanistan but suddenly he had no appetite. Everything was too strange. How could he be friends with the president? To be someone that the president seemed to rely upon? "Look, I'm tired. Can I be alone?"

~~~

James was ready for bed but felt restless at the lack of any new text from John. Surrendering to the need clawing at him, he texted, 'Are you okay?'

'Not really' was the swift reply. James tapped on John's name, relieved when the call was answered immediately. "Sir?"

"You call me James, remember?" From across the room, Alison gave him a look that said, 'what took you so long?'

"Yes. James."

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah, we had burgers for dinner and then everyone left. It was getting late, I felt bad at having them wait around for so many hours at the hospital."

"No one minded, John. They wanted to be there to support you. I wanted to stay, but I was making the hospital staff nervous. It adds an extra level of security and complexity for me to be anywhere."

"I wouldn't have expected you to stay, sir. I'm really amazed you even came. I appreciate that."

I've had my cock up your ass, James thought. I've kissed you, hot and sweaty, our naked bodies rubbing against each other. I've watched you fuck my wife into a screaming orgasm. And then you bring me Danish and call me sir and stress over my reputation and stand patiently like you're a human shield masquerading as a work of art. He wanted so much to talk about what they'd meant to each other, how supportive and protective John could be, but restrained himself. This was not the time. John was coping with enough; he didn't need to be burdened by James' needs. "We're friends."

"Yes, sir. James."

"Have you remembered anything at all?"

"No. I'm just roaming around my apartment. I remember a lot of the things I own, or I can see things that are my taste, but it's just—like someone designed an apartment for me. I don't remember moving in or anything."

It was weird to think that John was one of the most important people in his life, and yet James had never, and probably never would, see his apartment. The president didn't stop by people's homes for casual visits. "Do you want to stay there? I can send a car to bring you to the White House."

"That's—really amazing of you to offer, but no, thank you. This is my life now, right? I should get used to it. Emily showed me some clips from that day on her phone. It seemed pretty wild."

"If you want the full picture of what happened, look up the hearings on the congressional website. You were interviewed for several hours."

"Okay, thanks. Huh."

"Huh?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just looking at a picture of my family. It looks like maybe we had a reunion after I got home. Emily's in it, she looks more like I remember, but Mel's not. My hair's really short." 

Pictures of John in his uniform has circulated after the events of that day. Even with the buzz cut, he'd looked good. Not that James would say anything about his looks to John, certainly not now. "Have you talked to your parents?" 

"No, Mel said they're on a road trip right now, and they don't have a cell phone so I've just gotta wait until they call. She did text my brothers that I was okay. She didn't tell them about the amnesia."

"That might be for the best." 

"What does it matter? It's not like I can reveal any of your secrets, or the Secret Service protocols or anything." 

James winced at the reminder that John didn't even know he had secrets to keep. "You don't like publicity, John. The press will be all over you if you admit that your memory's gone." 

"Fuck. I mean, yeah, I guess they would. Sir?"

"James, yes?"

A beat of silence, and then John replied. "James, can I ask you something? Do you know if I'm dating someone?"

"You haven't mentioned dating anyone to me. You're friendly with a few women at the Capitol, mainly political aides, but not really flirtatious. Why do you ask?"

"I looked through my texts. We do text a lot, don't we?" John's voice sounded incredulous. "And I text Mel and Emily and a few people about work, even a few old friends now and then, I just—I thought there would be someone more in my life. I feel like I'm missing someone, that I should be letting someone know I'm okay."

Was he remembering his connection to James and not even realizing that he was talking to the person he was seeking? He didn't know why their texts were so bland, didn't realize James' importance to him. Maybe he should explain? How would John from Afghanistan, John who hadn't been through that day, react to the news that he was in a polyamorous relationship? Would he be pleased, intrigued, distressed? "Those are all the people I know of in your life."

"Hon—" Alison reached out, touching the phone. "Hang on, John, Alison wants to say hi." James surrendered the phone to her. "John?"

She sat down on the side of the bed, listening to John's response. "Alison. You call me Alison."

James could see her face, the stress and concern as she struggled to keep her voice pleasant. "Are you sure you don't want to come here? We've got space. There's always a room ready. Several of them, in fact."

John was apparently continuing to resist, which wasn't surprising. Other people might leap to be friends with powerful people, but not John. Alison spoke a few more minutes before disconnecting. "He said he'd see you at work on Monday."

"Carol may resist. He won't remember any of the Secret Service protocols."

"He's still in the military in his mind. He'll react fast to any threat. He doesn't need to know your code name to shoot bad guys in the head. Just tell Carol that. You know she won't try to keep him away from you. She knows what you need."

"What I need is for John to stop getting hurt. And John never shoots people in the head. He's been trained to aim for center mass."

She rolled her eyes at him before turning to settle against him, and he wrapped her in his arms. "What do we tell him and when, if his memory doesn't come back soon?"

He held her close, appreciating her comfort. "I don't know." The wisest thing might be nothing at all, to take the opportunity to end an affair that might destroy his presidency, but James didn't know if he could give up that connection to John. 

~~~

John thought he'd been paying attention when he'd set out running, but the terrain in DC was very different than Afghanistan, and he'd lost track of his route, just focusing on the slap of his sneakers against the concrete sidewalk, the burn in his legs, the feeling of his sweat on his brow and darkening his sleeveless T-shirt. He was grateful that he'd dropped his phone in the pocket of his sweats and actually remembered his address. 

He'd woken up that morning, his hand curled around his dick, from a dream about James. He'd been sucking James' dick, the sensation almost real, the president's big hands around his head, a musky scent in his nose. It had been hot but strange. Why would he fantasize about his boss? Why not Mel or any of the women he'd dated? 

He stopped, pulling out his phone and looking at his route. He was close to his apartment, just another block, and then he needed a shower, some food, and to figure out what the hell to do. He'd mentally adjusted to being in Afghanistan, where options were limited. Now he was home and it must not be his Emily weekend, or she would have been with him yesterday. What did he want to do with his Sunday? 

The most pressing need was to read about recent history, 'that day' as everyone said, and try to catch up, but watching Emily's videos had been too strange. He really wanted his memories to just come back. Maybe he'd drive around a bit, figure out how the hell he got to work, where and when he actually needed to show up tomorrow morning, make sure that he had a black suit clean and ready. That is, once he figured out where his car was parked. Why couldn't he live in an apartment building with numbered spaces? 

Yesterday he'd been too absorbed in just accepting that he had amnesia and had lost years of his life. Then he'd sat down to watch congressional hearings on his laptop and discovered he didn't know his password and he hadn't written it down on a convenient piece of paper. When had he gotten better about security? Last night he'd said screw it and gone to bed, but this morning he was dealing with the realities of how much he didn't know about his own life, and feeling overwhelmed. And still feeling weirdly like someone was missing. Was it just the ache of having divorced Mel, of not seeing Emily every day, or was there someone else important in his life? Surely he would have sent a few texts to anyone important to him? 

A woman across the street waved and yelled, "John!"

He waved back, smiling tentatively. 

"Special Agent John Cale!" she added, smiling like she knew him, like his full title was an amusing thing to say.

He waved again, waiting at the light. She was quite beautiful, with wavy red hair, a darker red than Mel's strawberry-blond, and sleeker in appearance. She wore a pretty dress, that showed off gorgeous long legs, but she triggered no memories. Still, Hernandez and James hadn't either. He was a Special Agent, wasn't he? That was a cool thought, even if still unreal. He was doing something important with his life. Not that his military service wasn't important, it was, but he'd had limited options and the army had been happy to take anyone healthy. That John already knew how to shoot and had wrestled in high school and been in enough brawls to know the basics of fighting was only a bonus. Enlisting in the military was a very different animal then joining the Secret Service. 

The woman came walking to meet him as he crossed the street. "Are you okay? You looked like—" she looked up and down his body, appreciatively but concerned. "Like you were favoring one side."

He put a hand on her waist, encouraging her to walk back the way she'd come. Maybe she was the missing person? She was certainly someone who would have made him take a second look. Maybe if the relationship was new, he'd just decided to not mention his girlfriend to his ex or the president. "It's nothing. I got knocked down by a car yesterday, a hit and run I guess."

"I heard the news. But you're feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." They stepped onto the curb. He raised the bottom of his overly long T-shirt, wiping at the sweat on his face, and then twisted to show her his side, the bruises on his skin. "It looks bad but it'll clear soon."

She reached out, touching him lightly. He realized she was holding up her phone, which seemed strange. "It does look bad. I heard President Sawyer sent the VP to his lunch meeting when he heard you were hurt."

"Yeah, he stopped by the hospital for a couple of hours but he left when I woke. He was making the staff nervous."

"I can bet. Having the POTUS watch you take care of his favorite person must be unnerving."

His favorite person? "I don't think I'm his favorite person, just a friend. That was nice of him to stop by."

"Were Melanie and Emily upset? It must scare them, the way you keep getting hurt."

"Getting hurt?" he asked reflexively, still trying to figure out who she was. She'd called him John and talked to him like a friend but also Special Agent Cale. Military used titles and last names a lot, but civilians didn't. Except that Hernandez did… could she be a co-worker? "Why do you have your phone out?"

"You say getting hurt like you've forgotten that Muriel Walker and her nephew almost killed you! You're something of a trouble magnet. You need to take better care."

Muriel Walker? Was she related to Martin Walker? He really needed to find out everything that had happened since he'd returned from Afghanistan.

"Look, I need to shower. I've been sweating." 

"I like you sweaty." She ran her hand down the front of his T-shirt, the blue polish of her nails that matched her blue eyes bright against the white cotton. "I always have, you know that."

It made him uncomfortable, being touched by a stranger, even a beautiful woman. She must be a girlfriend. A friend or co-worker wouldn't caress his chest like it was her right. "I smell bad, you don't want to be around me."

"Oh, but I really do." She rose up on her toes, pressing her lips to his. For a moment, John let her kiss him. Her lips were soft and sweet and John was tempted to pull her closer, kiss her deeper. Had they had sex already? Could he just lead her to his apartment, strip her clothes off, learn how good she felt naked under his hands?

He hadn't had sex with a woman since… Well, he didn't know, did he? He last remembered hooking up with a brunette just before shipping out, the night before the last bad fight with Mel. 

Lost in unpleasant memory, John recoiled away from her, realizing she was still holding the damn phone up. He was tempted to just grab it from her, but he wasn't that guy, wasn't an asshole who would use his strength against someone weaker. Not any longer. "Are you filming? Why?"

"Why were you acting like you know me?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He didn't know her. He'd tried to act like he knew what was going on and she'd run with his ignorance. "I do not give permission to be filmed."

"Do you know who I am?"

"I want you to stop filming me."

"Do you have amnesia?" she asked, incredulously.

John felt trapped, unwilling to expose his vulnerability. He'd messed up. He clenched his hands in his fists, his jaw tightening, James' warning about the press hounding him echoing in his mind.

"Have you lost your memory? Do you remember President Sawyer?"

"I do not give you permission to film me," he insisted. 

"You're an American hero, John. A very private unassuming American hero. People want to know about you. They want to know if you've been hurt."

"People don't have a right to know about me," he gritted out.

"How much of your memory is gone? Do you remember President Sawyer?"

"Go to hell," he said, before turning on his heel and walking away, his stride quickly lengthening into a run. As soon as he got into the lobby of his apartment building, he raised his fist to punch the wall, managing the last minute to slap it several times. Score one for not discovering whether he could put his fist through the sheetrock or would bruise his knuckles. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against the wall. He hated this, hated the big hole in his life. Total strangers knew him, knew things about his life that he didn't. 

His body still felt tired from the run, but his mind was in turmoil. He couldn't just go sit in his empty apartment, watching congressional testimony on his fucking phone because his laptop was a big paperweight without the password. Maybe he could see Emily, spend time with her. A friend would be better though, someone he might have confided things to that he wouldn't have told his daughter. Like whether he was dating anyone.

He took the stairs two at a time, feeling one of those flashes as he walked out the doorway into the hallway, expecting somehow to see a blond woman waiting for him. He blinked, because there was a blond—a guy, slouched against his doorway, fiddling on his phone. "Roger?"

"John!" Roger straightened, put his phone away, and they hugged, each one laughing a bit. Roger kissed John on the lips, causing John to jerk back and look around. "Hey, what's wrong? No one's here."

"You're married."

"Yeah." Roger ran his hand through his hair. "And you know my dad would totally rake me over the coals." He dropped his voice. "The Bible teaches us that homosexuality is a sin." He laughed. "I bet even Jesus and his apostles would have exchanged a few hand jobs if they'd been stuck in Afghanistan."

"Your uncle was the speaker of the house," John said slowly. He could remember seeing Roger like it was yesterday, the hours of boredom talking about their lives back home. Roger's uncle was a high-ranking congressman, all of his family even more conservative than John's, and after the army, Roger was thinking about a future career in politics. Not so much following his uncle's footsteps, but wanting to do good locally. 

"Yeah, of course." Roger gave him a confused look. "He got you your job with the Capitol Police, remember? So that you were in the right place at the right time to become an American hero? And reveal that he was very definitely not?"

"Why did he get me a job?"

"John, what the hell is wrong with you? He got you a job because he appreciated you saving my life. I did too, by the way. I gave you that really nice blow job, remember?"

John glanced around, nervously.

"No one's listening."

"I feel like I'm being watched."

"Then open your door and you can go take a shower, because you reek, and then you can tell me why you're being so weird."

That actually sounded like a good plan. John unlocked his apartment door. "What are you doing here?"

"Sawyer called me."

"The president?"

"Of course, the president. Are you BFFs with any other Sawyers? I was one of the community organizers at that lunch thing he missed yesterday because you were hurt. I guess the VP told him I was in town." He tossed himself down on John's couch, putting his feet on the coffee table. "That was a weird call, too. He brought up that you'd been hurt, and that he thought you could use an old friend."

"So you just cancelled your plans and dropped by?"

"Of course I did. I owe you my life, and my whole family owes you for your support. Or lack of judgement anyway. What my uncle tried to do has definitely made life hard for my family. We get hounded for reactions every time there's a new motion in his trial. The way you've frozen out the press and not added to the fire has been one small godsend in a total shitstorm. Oh hey," he pulled out his phone again. "Did Mandy send you the newest picture of your namesake?" He held out his phone, displaying a blond, blue-eyed baby in a pink camo onesie.

"She's beautiful." John hoped that her name was Frances. He'd always liked that better as a girl's name than Johnnie. 

"She exists because of you. I owe you her and the rest of my life, and I will never forget that. Now go shower, because you stink, and I need some lunch."

~~~

James usually liked Sundays. They tended to be quieter days without too many scheduled commitments, where he could catch up on his policy reading for the coming week. 

Having the situation with John so unsettled made it difficult to focus on his work, so he instantly glanced at his phone when it rang. Emily's picture flashed, then disappeared before he picked up the phone. 

Alison gave him a look from her curled position on the other end of the sofa. 

"Emily called but it disconnected." He called her back, reassured when she answered immediately.

"President Sawyer."

"Uncle James, remember? What's up?"

"It doesn't matter."

He leaned back on the couch. "It definitely matters if you called me directly without asking your dad first if I was free."

There was a moment of silence before Emily said, "I'm not sure if I should ask you."

"Emily, there is absolutely nothing that you cannot ask me. I'm your friend." In a lighter tone, he added, "And your president, so you have to obey me and tell me what's going on."

"And that means you're Dad's boss—I shouldn't have called."

Why did it matter if he was John's boss? Was something wrong with John that a boss shouldn't know? "Emily." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I know I'm your Dad's boss, and I respect his privacy, but I'm his friend too. And now I'm worried. If there's anything wrong, please tell me." He thought about adding a 'pretty please,' but this was not the time to be cute. 

"Do you think Dad's bisexual? And if he is, why wouldn't he tell me?"

That was—not at all what he'd expected to be asked, but he couldn't back out now, not after he'd insisted. He wanted to keep Emily's respect as an adult who could be trusted. "It's certainly possible that your Dad is bisexual, but the important thing is how he views himself, and you should talk to him about that. And if he is, he may not have told you for several reasons. He may think you're too young to understand." Alison raised her eyebrows at him, clearly curious. "Why do you think he is?"

"I was watching the camera feed on his apartment and that guy he saved in Afghanistan—"

"Speaker Raphelson's nephew."

"He kissed Dad. Dad pulled back but he didn't—he didn't seem upset or surprised. You'd only kiss someone if you expected to be kissed back, right?"

"Usually, but not always," James said carefully. "Sometimes people make the wrong assumptions or misread other people, and people go along with it, for different reasons. It can be a complicated situation."

"Oh." Emily seemed to ponder for a moment. "So Dad may not have wanted to be kissed but he didn't want to be rude?"

"It's possible." Roger kissing John was not at all an outcome James had expected when he'd asked him to drop by. He'd known that John had fooled around with guys in his unit, but thought the interaction was limited to hand jobs. Kissing hello implied more. How much more? "I thought you took that camera down?"

"I was going to, but Dad said it was okay, that I saved his life. He always waves at it when he gets home. He didn't today."

"He doesn't remember it's there."

"I want him to get his memory back."

"I know. I do too. You should talk to him about these things, when you have a calm time to sit and discuss, and let him think about how to respond."

"Doesn't he know how to respond?"

Sometimes kids did come up with the most adorable comments. Being a parent would have been so much easier if he and Alison had always known how to react to Amber, how to talk to her. "Your Dad and I, we were raised in a world where we thought most people were straight. It can be hard for us to adjust. And I think it'll be hard for your Dad to talk to you about it. Our parents rarely talked to us about these things."

"That just seems silly. What's the point of being a parent if you don't talk to your kids about things? You should want to teach them."

"You are absolutely right," he agreed.

They exchanged a few more words, reconfirming for next weekend, and then hung up. James filled Alison in, knowing he sounded irritated about Roger kissing John. 

Alison wiggled her toes against James' thigh. "You know John defines himself as straight."

"I know."

"You should warn him about what she saw."

James looked at his phone. John had texted earlier that he was going running, but nothing since then. He might be out with Roger, or sitting around with him. Even having sex with him, a thought that James hated, though he knew he didn't have any prerogative to be possessive of John. The man was single and eligible and had never made any kind of commitment to James and Alison. He found himself texting, 'Run good?'

'Great. Thanks for sending Roger.' 

~~~

Though John was normally apolitical, he found himself appreciating that Roger definitely had that same schmoozing ability that presumably his uncle, the former speaker of the house, had. John showered and dressed casually, in jeans and a green shirt, and they walked down to the sports bar in the next block, where John was warmly welcomed by a waitress who sat them immediately and wanted to know if John wanted his healthy or unhealthy breakfast or lunch favorite. John couldn't even figure out how to respond, because 'who are you?' just seemed rude. With an easy smile, Roger introduced himself, got her name of Shelley, apologized that his friend had been hurt yesterday and was a little spacey, and ordered them John's unhealthy lunch preference. Since she then asked Roger how he liked his meat done, John figured he might be getting his second burger two days in a row. It was good he loved burgers. 

"What happened?" Roger asked quietly, when she had left.

"I got knocked down by a car yesterday. The most recent thing I remember is starting my third tour of Afghanistan. I don't remember saving you, coming home, your uncle getting me a job, the Capitol Police, the attack on the White House, the Secret Service, even Sawyer. It's all gone." He toyed with the silverware as Shelley swung by with a coffee pot.

"You know, I think we're ready for beers," Roger said. "John's probably got a favorite, right?"

"Lately, he usually has the Presidential IPA."

"Two of those, thanks."

"I freaked Emily out yesterday," John confessed after she'd gone. "She was older. I mean, she'd changed when I came home from my first and second tours, but Mel had been sending me photos, so I knew she'd changed. But this was—she was so much older. Sawyer was great, he stepped in and calmed her down."

"You don't remember at all? Really?"

John shook his head. "No. Oh—I'm supposed to text him. Just a sec." He pulled out his phone to see that James had texted him about his run, and sent him a quick text back, as Roger made charming conversation with the waitress bringing their beers. 

"You text with him?"

"He asked me to keep in touch, let him know I was okay." John stopped himself from mentioning that the texting was a regular occurrence going back months. That still seemed strange to him, that the president would text with one of his protection detail. Why was everything so strange? How had his life changed so much? 

"He must care a lot about you, to call me. They've caught you up to the fact that my uncle tried to have him killed, you get that, right?"

John took a sip of his beer, which was excellent. At least the loss of his memory had only improved his tastes. "Yeah, I guess. It's all—not really connecting. We've stayed in touch though, right? I went through my texts and saw that we chat occasionally. I don't think I have a lot of friends locally. I seem to work a lot."

"Hey, maybe this'll be a good life lesson for you, get some more balance in. You do keep in touch with some of the guys from our unit. You don't remember your congressional testimony, do you?"

"No, Sawyer mentioned it, but I haven't looked it up yet."

"Oh, it was hysterical. You sat there in your suit, reading from a paper," Roger sat up, stiffly, pretending he was holding a paper in front of him, "And then I shot these guys, and then I fought with these other guys because they had javelin missiles, and then I started a fire in the White House, and then I fought with the leader of the mercenaries and blew him up with a ring of grenades, and then I drove a Jeep into the Oval Office and put an entire clip into Martin Walker and told the speaker of the house that he was a goddamned traitor. The end." Nick's face was a complicated combination of amusement and bitterness. "It really was kind of funny, except that whole part where my uncle was one of the masterminds." 

"Fuck, seriously?"

"Seriously. I think everyone in the office was watching. You probably don't remember that I work with veterans' groups now, do you? We keep track of any publicity regarding veterans or veterans' issues. Everyone was loving what a badass you'd been, except they kept giving me side-eyed looks, expecting me to freak out or something." 

"Did they ask me a lot of questions? That's what Congress does, right?"

"Usually, but this time mostly the hearing was to validate that America would be okay, that we'd been attacked and an American hero stepped up to protect us. You gave your statement of what happened and then mostly they brown nosed you and you looked uncomfortable. Some of the hawks tried to argue that Sawyer was at fault since Walker had been the head of his protection, or that his peace plan was too risky." Roger broke off as Shelley set down two plates, bingo, bacon cheeseburger and fries as John had guessed. "Thank you, this is great," Roger said, once again waiting for her to leave. She wouldn't understand why John needed his own testimony explained to him. 

"One of those anti-violence wimps tried to make you feel bad about killing so many people, which got no traction with you. You just—kept being respectful and stuck to the line that you had done only what any American would do to protect his country. And that you had complete confidence in Sawyer's peace plan. That man must love you, I've never seen anyone display so much faith in a president."

"We're friends." John said, still feeling awkward about the whole 'friends with the leader of the country' thing. But James had both texted and called him last night, so he did seem to really care about him. "They tell me."

"You just really don't remember him at all? Not one bit?"

"No." John shook his head. "Hey, your daughter's name is Frances, right? I don't really like Johnnie as a girl's name." 

Roger looked startled, then laughed ruefully. "Yeah, I guess you don't remember meeting her, do you? It's funny, you said that when Mandy was pregnant. Actually, she's Callie. Callie Lynn Dawson." 

"Callie's nice."

~~~

After leaving Roger at his car, John walked back toward his apartment, feeling a little bit better. It had been good to spend time with a friend, to relax and catch up on news and be honest about this overwhelming problem he was facing. He'd thanked James already; should he text him again, let him know he was going home? 

"John!"

That redhead was back, walking toward him. He stopped, stiffened and stared at her, then kept walking, looking straight ahead, intending to go right past her. 

"If you keep walking, I could follow, and find out where you live. The press doesn't actually know your address. We only have an estimated location from the metadata from pictures taken of you in your neighborhood."

"So what, you're blackmailing me into talking with you? You need a follow-up for your story?"

"I haven't posted anything yet. Please, I'd like to apologize. I'm Cottia Kourakis." She held out her hand and John reluctantly shook it.

"I realized something was wrong when you put your hand on my waist to guide me. You don't touch members of the press. Ever."

John folded his arms over his chest and stared. Other than the press harassing him, did it even matter if people knew he had amnesia? It certainly meant he couldn't reveal any confidential information. 

"I'm still guessing you have amnesia from getting knocked down yesterday and assumed I was your girlfriend?" 

John let his expression relax but still stayed silent. 

"It was flattering." She reached out, resting the fingers of one hand lightly on his chest, the blue of her polish vibrant against the green of his shirt. "Even if you don't remember how famous you are, you must know you're an attractive man. And a really good kisser. I would not mind being your girlfriend." She smiled, revealing white teeth and dimples. "If the position was open."

"So you're press? With one of the networks?"

"No, I'm an independent blogger, like your daughter really. I'm a political junkie more than anything. It's a hobby. I do it because I enjoy it, but full disclosure, I do earn some income from the ad revenue. It's a nice sideline. I thought I'd come walk in this neighborhood, hoping to catch you after the accident yesterday, maybe do a follow-up report for my viewers on your health. You really are famous and people do care about you."

"People who don't know me? Why should they care?"

"People know how many missiles Walker was set to unleash. He wouldn't just have blown up the Middle East. Many experts have testified about what capabilities those countries would still have had or whether China and Russia would have leaped in, too. The retaliation could have devastated America. And of course, all the arguments about if Sawyer had actually been killed and Raphelson had stayed president, and those consequences...you really are an American hero."

John shrugged. He was tired of people being impressed by what seemed like a total fantasy. "Can I go now without you following me?"

"I shouldn't—" she suddenly seemed to have realized her fingertips were resting on his chest and dropped her hand. "I shouldn't have taken it to touching you. That was taking advantage of you."

"You're a good kisser, too," he admitted. And if he wasn't dating anyone, then he hadn't been disloyal by enjoying Cottia's kiss. "Are you going to post that video?"

"I should. This is huge news. And that you don't even know how famous you are—have you forgotten that day?"

"I last remember being on my third tour of Afghanistan," he admitted. "Only a couple of weeks in."

"Wow. You don't really remember that day? At all? Or Sawyer?"

"I'd heard a little about Sawyer as a politician but I hadn't paid much attention." He swallowed, hating to ask, but felt he must. "If you do post it, I'd appreciate if you cut off where I told you to go to hell. I don't think Secret Service agents are supposed to say that to people." He was embarrassed that his temper had got the better of him. Was that why he froze out the press so insistently? He didn't trust what he might say?

"I don't intend to post it. I would feel like I was taking advantage of you."

"Thank you."

"You do have a lot to catch up on." She stepped close, her voice lowering. "I was serious. You're a really attractive man. I'd date you." Leaning toward him, her breasts brushed against his chest. "Or just go back to your apartment and let you fuck my brains out."

His breath caught at her surprising boldness. "You don't even know me."

"I know what kind of person you are. I know more about you than a lot of guys I've hooked up with. Wouldn't it be nice, just an afternoon between your sheets, nothing to think about but how many times you could make me come? I bet you're the kind of guy who doesn't just want to get off, but takes it as a challenge, makes his woman come before and after him?"

His body was responding to her words, which were uncannily accurate. He could see it so easily, stripping her clothes off, her naked body on his bed, how good it would feel… he slid one arm around her waist, bringing their bodies together. He kissed her, no hesitation, plunging his tongue into her mouth, a little bit curious if he'd chase her off. Could she be as interested as she pretended? His other hand explored, finding one pert buttock, smooth and shapely under his grasping fingers. The material of her dress felt nice, silky, but he bet her skin felt even better. She moaned into his mouth, raising one leg to wrap around his thigh.

Maybe it would be good to take her back to his apartment. She was beautiful and willing and John could use an afternoon of feeling, not thinking. Thinking was only frustrating him. He'd always been more of an action guy. 

It felt wrong though, like he was being unfaithful. To Mel? They had been divorced longer than they'd been married. Maybe he'd been flirting with someone and it hadn't yet moved to texting? Who was he missing? 

He brought both hands to her waist, softening his hold, gently releasing her. 

"Please don't tell me that's a no," she pleaded. 

"Look, I—" There was a noise, that made John glance to the right, where a middle-aged couple stood, the husband holding up a video camera, the woman watching with rapt fascination. 

"Oh, please don't mind us! You two look so good together. Is this your girlfriend? She's not your ex, I know that. You like redheads, don't you? She's really pretty. Have you two been together long? Can I get your autograph?" The woman held out her forearm, a sharpie clasped loosely in her hand, like he should take it and sign her skin. 

"I told you, you're famous," Cottia whispered into his throat, detaching herself. 

If nothing else, John was grateful that the woman's verbal diarrhea had killed his erection. "We're having a private moment, do you mind?" That was not at all what he wanted to say, but he didn't need yet another video out there of him being rude. 

"Oh, don't mind us! Everyone'll be excited we actually got to see you." 

"I do not give you permission to film me," he said flatly, beginning to feel like a broken record. 

"We'll just put it up on Facebook, that's all. I don't have a lot of friends, a couple hundred maybe."

A couple hundred? Who the hell had that many friends? 

"John, walk away," Cottia whispered. "I'll try to talk them out of it. Just walk away." He felt her fingers at the front of his pants, pushing into his pocket, then she gave a bright smile and walked toward the couple. "I'm Cottia Kourakis. Who are you?"

John reluctantly decided to take her advice, walking swiftly away. When he reached his apartment, he pulled out the business card she'd left him, texting a brief thanks to her. 

He felt unsettled and at loose ends again. Lunch with Roger had been great, but being filmed by strangers was disconcerting. Maybe he needed to find those congressional hearings, watch everything he'd said, see if that jogged his memory. Only he'd have to find it on his phone or see if his daughter or the freaking president of the United States knew his password for his laptop. Which reminded him, if his memory didn't return soon, he'd have to figure out if he was still with the same bank and how to reset his password. Maybe he'd even improved his credit rating in the missing time, who knew? He didn't.

Fuck his memory loss. 

He rummaged around his apartment until he found a ratty notepad in a drawer, starting to write down everything he needed to know. Where did he take the garbage down to? Goddamnit, where was his car parked? 

Cottia texted a sad emoji. 'They've put it on Facebook. Could go viral.'

Well, he was single. And she was too, presumably. There wasn't any reason he shouldn't kiss a pretty woman on the sidewalk, even if it had started to get a little hot and heavy for public consumption.

'You should tell Sawyer.'

Why? 

'You reflect on him,' she added, as if perhaps realizing he'd be confused. 

'Thx,' he texted, and went to rummage in his refrigerator. Somewhere along the way, he had started drinking better beer, the kind of beer that cost $9 a six-pack. Because of his better salary? Or was his salary still not great because he paid child support? Was it the same amount or had it increased since he last remembered paying it? Kids got expensive as they got older, though Mel didn't seem like the kind of woman to sue for an increase. Something to add to the list. At least for that one he could just ask her. He grabbed a beer, opened it, took a large swallow, and noted on his sheet to find the closest grocery store. 

This was ridiculous. He'd felt better prepared to deal with Afghanistan than Washington D.C. At least people had been waiting to welcome him to the base in Afghanistan and he'd been part of a troop. Here, he only seemed to have an ex, a daughter he didn't see that often, a friend who didn't live in town, a woman who might become a friend, and the president of the United States. 

Should he text James, as Cottia suggested? He hadn't texted him since thanking him for sending Roger. It did seem like he texted him regularly, though why the president wanted to be bothered by the daily activities of one junior agent was weird. 

He picked up his phone, thinking of what to text. 'Caught making out with total stranger. Public might think your friend is a slut.' He typed in the passcode, seeing a picture of James come up, with a text, 'Call me when you can talk.'

His phone rang, Emily's picture appearing, and he answered happily, grateful for the delay. "Hey, baby."

"Hi Dad. I'm not really a baby any longer, you know."

"Yeah. You'll always be my baby."

"Do you have time to talk? Is it a good time?"

"Sure, of course." He tilted the chair back, remembering when Mel would nag him about harming the furniture. Well, it was his furniture now. Or maybe it wasn't, maybe it came with the apartment. "What's on your mind?" Please let it be something he could answer, because it seemed like he didn't know anything these days. 

"Are you bisexual?"

"What?"

"Are you bisexual?"

"I heard the question, I just don't know why you're asking it. Of course I'm not bisexual."

"You kissed Roger Dawson."

"I—how do you know that?"

"I watched the video from your apartment hallway."

"The what?"

"I have a camera in your hallway apartment. You wave at it when you leave and come home. You knew it was there. You gave me permission."

Was any part of his life private? Could he be anywhere without being watched? "Okay," he said. He couldn't be mad at her for something he had allowed. "Okay. You saw me kiss Roger."

"But on Facebook now you're kissing some woman. I don't know her. Is she your girlfriend?"

"Is that already online? How can you see it? The woman said it was just going to be on her Facebook."

"Nothing's ever private on Facebook, Dad. That's just what Facebook wants you to believe. It's going viral."

One wasn't supposed to say, "Fuck," to your own daughter, but John struggled to come up with any better word. 

"So you've kissed a man and a woman today. Doesn't that make you bisexual?"

"I am not bisexual!" he snapped.

"Dad!"

She sounded hurt by his anger, and he did not want to hurt her. "Em," he said, gentling his tone. "I'm not a bisexual. I love women. I loved your mother. Afghanistan was just—long and lonely, okay? Sometimes I fooled around with some of the guys in my unit. It was stress relief, that's all. It didn't mean anything." He should not be talking about his sex life to his daughter; this was too many shades of wrong. Parents should teach their kids about sex, but not share details of their own activities. He couldn't imagine any situation that would make his parents talk to him about what happened in their bedroom, and he wouldn't want to hear it if they did.

"But you're in America, and he still kissed you."

Fuck Roger, why had he? They'd never done a lot of kissing in Afghanistan, at least not that he remembered. Not that he'd ever minded kissing. He liked kissing, but it wasn't needed for getting off. "I didn't ask him to." 

"Does Mom know?"

"We talked about it, yes. I never cheated on your mother."

"So you're not bisexual, even though you have sex with both men and women."

"Yes." Please let her understand and let this go. 

"It's about how you define yourself, that's what uncle James said."

"Uncle James? You don't have an uncle James." He had two brothers, Mel had one, none of them were named James. The only person he knew named James was… 

There was silence.

"Emily, did you call the president of the United States and ask him if I was bisexual?"

"He said I could ask him anything. You've said that I could call him without going through you."

"That was before I lost my fucking mind and forgot he existed!" John stood so abruptly that he knocked the chair over. In irritation, he paced between his small living room and kitchen. "You do not have an uncle James, do you get that? That man is the president of the United States, he is not your uncle. He is my boss. You never call someone's boss and ask about their sexuality!"

Emily has begun crying, but angry tears, and she was stubborn, insisting, "He said I could call him uncle James. He's a really good friend of yours, Dad. You wouldn't mind me calling him if you remembered him."

"There is never a world in which I would want you to call my boss about my sex life! Do you hear me?!" In a fit of anger, he threw the phone against the wall, instantly regretting it as he heard the glass crack. He rushed over and grabbed it, but the phone was definitely dead, and his landlord would not be happy about the dent in the wall. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Now he'd unleashed his temper on his daughter and made her cry. He'd made a promise to himself, to never lose his temper again with his family, and he'd broken it. 

He twisted and slumped to the ground, his back against the wall, and just sat for a while. Eventually, he got up and went to the kitchen, leaning against the sink to see if he was going to throw up. His stomach roiled but nothing happened. He got the beer off the kitchen table and sat down on the floor again, his back against a kitchen cabinet. The toppled chair was still laying on the ground.

His phone was broken, and he didn't know anyone's number, so he couldn't even try to borrow a phone to call Emily and apologize. He didn't know where his damn car was parked, and even if he did, there was no guarantee that Mel still lived in the same apartment. He couldn't call James back, James who must have been wanting to warn him about Emily's call. The White House would be listed, so if he did borrow someone's phone, he could look it up, except no one would be answering the main number on a Sunday. He needed James' direct number.

He'd fucked up and he should get up and figure out some way to start fixing things, but he just wanted to scream and bang his head against the wall until his memories came back. 

At least he didn't remember the code for gun safe either, the gun safe he didn't remember getting and wouldn't have expected that he ever would. He assumed both his granddad's shotgun and whatever gun he carried for his job were in it. 

He finished the rest of his beer and got another out, sitting it on the floor by him. He didn't open it. If nothing else, he'd go to the White House in the morning. His car keys were in a bowl by the door, maybe he could wander around hitting the unlock button until something responded. Or find a cab.

The door unlocked and opened. "John?"

"Mel? Is Emily with you?" He made himself stand up, feeling shaky. His daughter shouldn't see him so weak. 

"No, I told her to stay home and that I'd let her know how I found you. You haven't been responding to our calls or texts." Mel came into the kitchen, regarding him dispassionately. 

"I don't—I broke my phone, and I don't know your numbers, and I don't know where my car is parked to go buy another one. And I—" he slid down again, sitting on the floor. "I wasn't going to be angry with either of you again. I wasn't going to lose my temper."

"Well, that was unrealistic of you." Mel picked up the unopened beer and put it back in the refrigerator before sitting down opposite him. 

"We didn't talk about that? I didn't promise you?" He'd thought about making that promise a lot, unsure whether he should try to bring it up on calls home or wait until his return.

"John, we talked about your anger management issues but that was—"

"A long time ago? Mel, it was like—a couple of weeks ago I almost hurt you."

She looked taken aback. "You—you wouldn't have hurt me. You got a little pushy, out of frustration."

"No, I think I almost did. I remember our yelling at each other and my pinning you against the wall. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't kneed me in the nuts." 

"I think you would have stopped yourself before you went much further. And I definitely know some men who would have backhanded me instead of crying too and apologizing," Mel said softly. 

"Just because I wasn't a total monster, that's—not enough. I shouldn't have done any of that."

"No, you shouldn't have, but you've already apologized, several times. You promised you would never be that man again. You were already working to be a better, more responsible person, you were just frustrated because it was slow going and you were dreading Afghanistan again."

John shook his head, rejecting her sympathy. He remembered his anger at her insistence that he just shouldn't go, that he should get the hell out of the army, like that was a simple thing to do. Or that he'd had any other decent options. "You shouldn't be excusing me. I don't deserve it. Here I am, making my daughter cry and smashing my phone." 

"Losing your memory has to be hard, John. Harder than I think any of us realized. I'm sorry that I didn't even think about where your memory had gone back to. No wonder you looked so nervous when you asked me if we were okay. But you'll pull it together. You're—"

"Do not say I'm an American hero. How can I feel like a hero? I was a loser, barely getting by because I was healthy and knew how to shoot guns, and trying to be a better person, and suddenly I wake up and it's all fixed and I don't even know how I got here. I'm this crazy American hero and friends with the president and what the hell did I do to deserve that?"

Mel gave a gentle sigh, but he recognized that expression on her face. She was tired of arguing with him. "John, you told me several times that you were going to listen to me and that you respected me. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're not going to keep rehashing this, because I'm your ex and no longer the person you should be talking to. You may not remember those conversations but I do, and I don't want to have them again."

She stared at him, until he gave a nod. She was his ex, it wasn't her responsibility to fix the holes left by his amnesia. 

"We're going to find your go bag, and then I'm going to drive you to the White House, because you shouldn't be alone. You're going to hang there for the rest of the day and if you need to talk, Sawyer will listen. Or if you don't want to talk, he'll respect that. Tomorrow you can get up and put on your suit and spend the day shadowing him."

"I can't go hang out with the president because—"

"Because you're likely suffering from PTSD and having a meltdown? There's no one in this world who wants to be there for you more than Sawyer."

"He's the pres—"

"John." She grabbed his chin, staring him in the eyes. "Are you going to listen to me and respect me or not?"

He drew a shaky breath. "I'm going to listen to you and respect you."

"Then stand up and find your go bag."

John stood.

~~~

"You're staring out the window again," Alison said.

"Occupational hazard," James responded. "Don't I look presidential?"

"Baby." She patted the couch by her. "Right now you look like you want to bang your head against that window. That glass has never done anything to you. Come sit down."

"John—"

"John isn't responding, I know that. John doesn't understand why he should. He's just going to freak out if you send one of the other agents to check on him. Give him some space."

"I'm trying to give him space, and he's having PDAs with a stranger." James could hear the anger and hurt in his voice. Alison would hear it too. 

Right now James wished that Chris wasn't so on top of identifying any media that might impact him. With John not responding to his text, James hadn't wanted to know what he was doing instead. John didn't even remember several years of his life, what the hell could have happened that he ended up making out with a stranger on the sidewalk, and a political blogger of all people? 

"You don't actually know she's a stranger. He may not have wanted to mention her to you."

"That he might have been lying to me by omission doesn't make me feel better. And even if he did know her, if he met her after his third tour, she's a stranger now." Could John have deliberately not mentioned a girlfriend? He'd asked if he had one, maybe it was this woman he'd been trying to remember, not James. He wasn't required to reveal everything in his personal life, but James had thought that he would mention if he was dating. 

"I don't know—" Three firm knocks sounded on the door to the residence, the signal that one of his agents needed to talk to him, but not so urgently that they would rush right in with guns drawn. "Come in."

Bullard opened the door and leaned in. "John Cale is at the guard house requesting admittance to see you."

James felt hope leap in his chest but kept his voice calm. "Of course. Send him in."

John didn't look his best when he walked in, his face pale and worried. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a green t-shirt that brought out the color of his eyes. His go bag was slung over his shoulder. "Sir, Mel said I should come here. I hope that's okay."

"Of course." James and Alison both gave him quick hugs, Alison taking his hand and tugging him to the couch.

As they sat on each side of him, James asked, "What's wrong? You didn't call when I asked."

"Emily got me first. She told me that she had called you and what she asked you. I got angry. I threw my phone against the wall and smashed it."

"John." James risked putting a hand on John's knee, squeezing it, then removing his hand. "I know that was an unusual thing for her to ask, but I didn't mind. I would always encourage her to talk to you or Mel first, you're her parents, but I want her to feel she can talk to me."

"I had sworn I wasn't going to get angry at Mel or Em again, not like that."

"That was probably unrealistic," James said carefully.

John gave a bitter laugh. "That's what Mel said."

"I'm glad she was there for you, and sent you here."

"She said you'd listen to me talk. Or I should just be with people."

"And she's right. Do you want to talk?"

John gave that bitter laugh again. "I don't even know where I'd start. Or what I'd want to say. There's a movie theater, right? Maybe I could just go watch something. I don't want to bother you guys."

Sometimes John's self-deprecating attitude really did make James want to bang his head, but telling him once again that they were friends seemed fruitless. John seemed unwilling to accept he was friends with the most powerful person in the country. "Or there's a television right here." He tossed the remote to John. "We're doing policy reading. Find something to watch."

"That'll bother you guys."

Alison patted John's knee, and James wished he could touch him more. One squeeze was probably enough. He didn't want John to feel uncomfortable around him. "We have a teenager and we grew up with siblings. We can block out noise. You want something to drink? I'm going to have a glass of wine."

"Juice? Gatorade? Something like that would be great."

"Baby?"

"Wine for me too."

~~~

As far as his mind knew, yesterday morning he'd woken up in a bunk in Afghanistan; today he was channel surfing in the White House. His life was surreal. 

James and Alison didn't seem at all disturbed by his preference for sports. They sat at each end of the couch, reading on their tablets, while he sat in the middle. The couch was large enough that they didn't touch. He tried to not jump around channels too much, because that used to drive Mel nuts, but sometimes a game got dull. 

Alison finished her wine and went to refresh her glass, taking away his empty juice bottle and bringing him back an IPA. "That's what you like, right?"

Did James and Alison sometimes drink wine, sometimes IPAs? Or did they just keep a selection of beverages? They probably did a lot of entertaining. "Yes, thank you."

At some point, he felt a weight against the top of his arm, realizing that Alison had shifted to curl up against him and dozed off. "She's asleep," he said softly.

"Let her sleep. She doesn't get enough." James leaned around John, pulled the tablet out of her loose grip, and put it on the coffee table. 

"Insomnia?"

"Insomnia, stress. Sometimes she curls up on the couch for a while so she doesn't bother me." 

"Can I ask you something?" John kept his voice quiet. 

"Yes, of course."

"I get that I saved your life and stopped Walker from starting World War III, but everyone talks like—you want me constantly by your side and to know everything that goes on with me. You're the president of the entire country. It's just—I don't get it, sir. What I did doesn't put you under any kind of obligation."

"Maybe not to you…" James stopped, stared at the tv for a moment, and started again. "You're a soldier, a military man, but I'm not. I never even thought about that kind of life. I don't know if you can understand what it was like, being rushed to the basement for my protection, and then to see a man I trusted shoot all of the people around me. Good men, professional men, men in uniforms and suits, men who were equipped to deal with violence but not betrayal. Even one man that Martin considered a friend and protege. And then you were there, saving me. And we spent the next couple of hours constantly under fire and you were always there for me."

"Though he did scold you," Alison inserted sleepily, shifting and resettling against John's body, like he was a big pillow for her use. He'd thought James could be handsy, but it was nothing compared to his wife. 

"I scolded you?"

"You were not happy when he lost the rocket launcher."

"He lost the rocket launcher? How do you lose a rocket launcher?"

James laughed, and John had the sense that he'd missed an in-joke. "But we got through it, and survived, and my peace plan is being accepted and implemented."

"Okay," John said, but he was still confused. As he understood that day, he'd done what anyone with his training would have done, protect the civilian, kill the bad guys. James probably gave medals regularly to people for similar acts of courage. 

"John, I probably have PTSD. I'm edgy in crowds or around people I don't know well. But I look around and I see you, you standing alert in your dark suit, and I know it's okay, that you'll protect me, because you're the only one who did."

That began to make more sense, the personal connection that James would have felt. "You haven't had the diagnosis confirmed?"

"I can't appear weak. I can't give the military industrial complex any opportunity to say that I want peace because I'm scared, because I couldn't make tough military decisions if I needed to. I know you're not a political man, but you can see that, right?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

"I need you. We've never discussed it, but you seem to have instinctively understood that, you and Carol Finnerty. You do a lot of split shifts when we travel. You're always there when I'm actually moving between locations."

Was this the reason for all the texts, James needing to know where John was? He hadn't imagined that the president would feel so dependent on him. Right now John wasn't exactly the most stable guy himself. "I had a little meltdown this afternoon. Mel said she thought that I had PTSD."

"I know Emily's had some therapy sessions too. That day was traumatic for all of us. Your tours in Afghanistan would have been stressful for you." 

"So you're saying we're all messed up?" 

James put his hand on John's knee, squeezing, and like the other times he'd touched him, it felt okay. The president must just be a handsy guy, because John couldn't imagine being so comfortable with a senior officer touching him. "As long as I have you, I do okay. I want to be there for you too, for whatever you need."

John felt a lump in his throat. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had suggested being there for him. He was a grown man, he wasn't supposed to need help. "Thank you, sir."

~~~

James had never been very much interested in sports, though he was politically savvy enough to at least have a general awareness of all the main ones. People wanted to relate to their president, and that meant never admitting he thought football was godawful boring. Basketball was his favorite sport to play; at least it meant a good cardiovascular workout, running up and down the court.

Watching John watch sports—now that was an activity he enjoyed. He kept it discreet, looking at John through the corner of his eye. The other man had been tense, stressed when he arrived, but slowly relaxed, his muscles unwinding as he settled in for serious couch potato-ing. 

He flicked through the sports channels, settling for a while on one or the other, seemingly interested in every physical activity, occasionally leaning forward at tense moments, once in a while with a muttered, "Yes, go, go!"

The afternoon went quite well, except that James would probably need to re-read all his policy papers. His focus had been too split between his tablet and John to absorb all the nuances he needed to understand. It had been a good afternoon, a relaxed John by his side, and really, James thought they would manage to make it through at least one afternoon and evening without giving themselves away. Maybe he and Alison could have done it, but John's muscle memory betrayed them. 

Alison had ushered them both into the kitchen and put them to work. She was never a woman to toil by herself when she could command her family and any convenient visitors. John was chopping vegetables for the salad, his knife work excellent, which didn't seem surprising, but then he held out a piece of carrot for Alison, who nibbled it from his fingers and swallowed, her tongue flashing out to lick her lips. Smoothly, John cupped a hand around her neck and pressed his lips to hers, and she kissed him back. 

John recoiled, coming to himself and an awareness that he'd just kissed someone else's wife. "I am sorry, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to do that." He looked ready to bolt out the door. 

James stepped up behind John, hugging him and splaying his hands over his abdomen. "John, it's okay."

"Sir, I just kissed your wife. I'm sorry, I guess I was thinking of Mel."

"You've had sex much more recently with Alison than Melanie. Your body knew it was okay."

"I—what?"

John's body was tense in James' arms, but he wasn't breaking away. Alison gave him a look over John's shoulder, clearly accepting this was his decision. "You've had sex with both of us."

"We've had sex, all three of us," John repeated.

"The first time was just the two of us. But the other times it's been the three of us."

John was silent for a moment, and James let him process. It felt good to hold him, especially if everything was about to go to hell. "Is that why everyone says you want to know what I'm doing, how I am? They know we're lovers?"

"Hopefully not. We try to keep it quiet, you most of all. You know that it could ruin my presidency." James could feel John's muscles unwind.

"Then why are we doing it? Why am I putting you at risk?"

"That's a million dollar question, isn't it?" James stepped back, releasing John, who turned to face him, his green eyes confused and worried. "I wish I could give you a really good answer. It started as a bit of a joke, but you make me feel good, protected. You help me relax. It just feels right." 

"I guess it's almost reassuring, everyone keeps talking like I'm this amazing hero, but I'm still being stupid and reckless." 

"Oh baby." It was Alison's turn to hug him from behind. "You are a hero."

"She's right. Do not doubt that. And if you're being stupid and reckless, Alison and I are right there with you. This is a group effort." 

The conversation was interrupted by three loud knocks. James and Alison backed away from John as Carol opened the door and looked in. "Can I come in?" 

"Please do," James said, cursing her timing, but trying to look pleased to see her. She must have driven straight there from her weekend away, because he'd never seen her in jeans. 

"Carol from high school?"

"Wow." Carol paused, then resumed walking into the kitchen area. "You really do have amnesia."

"I do." John held out his hand. "Wait, you're Carol Finnerty? Did you marry Jim Finnerty?"

"I did, though I booted him a while ago. I kept the name." 

"Yeah, he was—"

"Least said, soonest mended," Carol said, shaking his hand like they were meeting for the first time. 

The incongruity seemed to dawn on John, who looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry, that's—"

"It's never wrong to be polite, John. I texted you that I was almost back but you haven't responded."

"I broke my phone." 

"Carol, we were just about to have dinner. Do you want to stay?" Alison asked. "We have plenty."

Carol looked at the three of them. "Amber's overnight at a friend's, right?" she asked. 

"Yes, she'll be back tomorrow night."

"I would love to stay."

James was sorry but not surprised when she accepted and Alison put her to work setting the table. Maybe it would be better for John to process the new information by himself for a while.

~~~

Dinner at the White House, cooked by the first lady herself, there was something that John never expected to experience. The meal was nice though, the conversation flowing well, the other three casually inserting explanations of anything John couldn't remember. He was lucky to have these people as part of his life.

They had ice cream afterwards, John feeling confident enough to tease James about his obvious love for butter brickle as he accepted a dish of chocolate. He fell silent, listening as James and Carol did a quick review of the upcoming week and the events James would be attending.

He scooped up a spoon of ice cream, raising it to his mouth, and he looked past the cold dessert to James across the table from him. The ice cream was brown, but not as dark as James' skin, and John vividly remembered his dream, sucking James' dick. It hadn't been a fantasy, but reality, a memory breaking through. He'd sucked this man's dick. He'd gotten on his knees, and taken James as deep as he could, had felt James' hands curling around his head, urging him on. 

John licked his lips, closed his mouth on the ice cream and bit down, taking only part, staring at James. He rolled the ice cream in his mouth, letting it melt, before swallowing the rest, dragging his lips off the spoon, leaving it wet and shiny.

He'd jerked off black guys in the army, but he'd never sucked one off. If his dream was accurate, he had sucked this guy, willingly and enthusiastically. 

No one was talking. Everyone had fallen silent as he and James were staring at each other. James didn't have to speculate in his mind. James knew exactly what it felt like, to have John suck his dick, swallow his come.

"I'm sorry, I got lost in thought," John said, his voice bizarrely hoarse. "What were you saying?" he asked Carol.

"Actually, I was thinking of offering that I have a guest bedroom. You could come stay with me until your memory comes back."

He looked at her, her cautious eyes, freaking Carol from high school, when he'd been such a thoughtless punk, and she probably had only dreadful memories of him from that time. It was astounding that she'd hired him. He'd been aware that she'd been watching him all night. At first, he'd assumed she was a boss making sure her employee would function in the morning, before realizing that she'd been watching the Sawyers too. "You know, don't you? She knows?" he directed to James. 

"Yes, she knows."

"You told him?" Carol sounded concerned. "He's—"

"I'm not a risk. I'm not going to betray James. Or Alison."

"Your loyalty has never been in question, John. Your memory of very important events is gone. You're—vulnerable."

"No one's going to take advantage of him, and he will stay here," James said sharply. 

"With respect, sir—"

"Hey," John snapped. "I'm not a bone." He paused for a moment, and no one spoke, though he could tell that both James and Carol were struggling with staying silent. The president and the head of the Secret Service were respecting that his life was his decision. "I'd still like to stay here tonight, sir, if that's okay. I'll go back to my apartment tomorrow night. I can't wait for whenever my memory might return to start figuring out my life."

"Of course, John. You are welcome to stay as long as you like."

"Tonight's good." He stood, thanking Alison for dinner. "Is there somewhere else we could talk for a bit?" he asked Carol. "Can you let me know where and when I need to show up?"

Carol hesitated, then stood too. "Of course, John. We have a briefing room here, and I'll show you around."

~~~

Local news was on the tv, James and Alison curled together on the couch, when John knocked on the door and came in. "Okay to interrupt?"

"Always," James said, holding out one hand. 

John took it, sitting on the edge of the couch. "I'm ready for tomorrow. Carol found an extra phone for me and she'll have a gun for me in the morning."

"Good."

"She showed me the room down the hall too. I'm ready to go to bed."

"You could stay here," James offered. "The couch, if you want."

"No, I think it's better if the agents outside see me go to another room." 

"You said that you were still doing something stupid. I want you to know that our relationship has never been stupid to me."

"I'm your protection. I shouldn't be letting you take risks."

James laughed, bringing their joined hands to his lips, kissing John's knuckles. "Sometimes it's hard to believe you don't remember me, you sound just the same." 

"I want to. I want to remember everything that happened. The doctors said I might at any time." 

"I want you to remember too," James admitted. "If you don't—"

Alison closed her fingers around their joined hands. "Then we'll talk about it and you'll decide if you want to make more memories. James and I already know what we want." 

James could see both the hesitancy and the want in John's green eyes. It wasn't fair to push him into a decision. He released his hand. "Go to bed, John. I'll see you tomorrow."

~~~

The bed was too soft, softer than his apartment, than his bunk in Afghanistan. Even softer than the master bed at Camp David. 

John stretched, hands over his head, then slipped one down to curl around his dick, stiff as it usually was when he woke in the morning. He remembered that bed at Camp David. Remembered the feeling of surrendering to recklessness and need, pushing James out of the living room and down the hallway, in front of Carol, his boss. 

Carol had barely reacted when he and James left the room, and at that moment, John hadn't cared what she'd thought. They were all there for James, and what he needed, and he'd liked John pushing him in the bedroom, was already hard by the time John had groped his fly and dropped to his knees to nuzzle at his zipper. 

Alison hadn't followed immediately, but John and James didn't wait, tugging at each other's clothes, John on his hands and knees on the bed with James' lubed fingers in his ass by the time she'd walked in, quickly stripping off her clothes and sliding underneath him. 

"Hey," John said, kissing her, already a bit overloaded by James hitting his prostate. "You're late."

"I have faith in you to make it right."

John was going to tease her, demand to know why he had to make it right that she'd spent time talking to Carol, but James' dick was breaching his opening, and he'd had to focus on the sensations rocking through his body. "Later," was all he could gasp, as James slid into position over him and began fucking him in earnest. 

Then it was all pleasure and heat and bodies sliding against each other, everything feeling so damn good. John touched, stroked anywhere he wanted, felt his body caressed in return. Nothing was off-limits; everything was welcomed.

Until John's stomach growled and James laughed. "Dinner."

They'd cleaned up and ate dinner with Carol, who casually informed them how the gin rummy game had gone and what movie they were watching that evening. They'd tried to help with the dishes, but she just raised her eyebrows at them, and John pulled them back to the bedroom. 

"I want you to fuck me," James said as soon as the door shut behind them. 

John's dick hardened at the request but he couldn't deny his nervousness. "Have you done that before?"

"Yes, but it's probably been twenty years."

"But you want it with me?"

"I do. I know you'll make it good."

"Absolutely, sir. I will make it so good for you," John promised, his stomach in knots. He'd fucked guys a few times, but he didn't feel particularly skilled or practiced at it. Slow, careful, lots and lots of lube. He could do this. "We need nakedness first."

That was easy to achieve, with plenty of kisses and caresses along the way, until James was sprawled face down on the white sheets, one knee bent to the side, raising his hips slightly. John knelt on the bed, smoothing his hands down James' back, to his buttocks, spreading the cheeks to expose his hole. He leaned down, and licked the crevasse between his cheeks, tasting James' skin. Not bad. 

James made a strangled sound. "No one's ever done that to me."

"I've never done it," John admitted. "But hey, if I'm going to start, I might as well start with presidential ass, right?"

"That is prime ass," Alison agreed. She'd kicked off her shoes and curled on a top corner of the bed, watching. 

"Are you enjoying your private porn show?" John asked, giving James' opening a longer, slower lick.

"I am a very fortunate woman," Alison said. 

"Damn straight," James replied.

John laughed. "There is nothing straight about this," he said, laying down next to James, bracing his body on one elbow, while one lubed finger teased James' opening. 

He took his time, slowly, patiently, because they had the luxury and James deserved it. Finding his prostate wasn't difficult. James made a really satisfying noise when John stroked the raised nub. He alternated touching the prostate and stretching the hole, adding another finger and scissoring the two. He wanted to hear more of those noises. 

Alison took off her clothes and laid down by James, kissing and stroking him lightly, but not enough to distract him from the pleasure John was giving him. 

James wiggled his ass as John added a third finger. "I don't need that much stretching."

"I may not have a monster porn cock, but I'm big enough. I'm not going to hurt you."

Glancing down at their bodies, John's fingers buried in his ass, John's dick flushed red with blood, James conceded with a nod, then a moan as John rubbed his prostate again. 

Finally satisfied, John pulled his fingers out, rubbed them on the sheets, and lubed up his dick, thrusting in slowly. James' hand curled into a fist and his breath caught. "Okay, sir?"

"Three fingers was a wise decision."

John paused, nuzzling at the back of James' neck, waiting until James' fingers relaxed before thrusting more. "You feel so good, sir. So tight."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So good around my dick, so good," John crooned mindlessly, his hips moving in an exquisitely slow rhythm. He could feel the passage ease, James' hole accommodating his width and length. "Tightest thing I've ever felt, sir."

"You could still call me James."

"You like it when I don't." John wrapped his fingers around James' dick, which was as hard as John's. It took a little coordination, thrust in, stroke with his hand, pull out, but Alison's hand curled around his, helping him along. 

He lost track of everything except feeling and James' reactions, the sound of the older man's rough breathing, the way his muscles twitched and rippled, the tightness of his ass around John's dick until he was coming hard, spurting onto John and Alison's fingers. His ass clenched, squeezing John even more intensely, and that was it, game over. John felt almost blinded as he came, emptying himself until he felt depleted, slumped over James. "So good," he whispered into James' ear. "So damn good."

Camp David had been the best sex of his life, with two people who were amazing, the most intelligent, capable people he'd ever known, and who cared for him. John stroked himself and came in a rush, trying to catch it all so he didn't mess up the sheets in the White House guest bed. 

Letting his breathing slow, John laid in bed, memories drifting through his mind. Carol had already been making breakfast when they got up in the morning, cheerfully telling them a few spoilers about the movie they'd watched. 

Carol, poor Carol. She'd gone from not hiring him because she thought he was a loser, to respecting him, to hiding his polyamorous affair, to trying to protect him. That was more loyalty than he would have expected, to try to take him away from James until his memory came back and he could make his own decision about their relationship fully informed. She didn't know James and Alison as well as he did, if she'd thought they'd take advantage of him. 

He remembered that awkward interview with her, knowing that he'd blown it as soon as he saw her, that he'd already blown it when he'd been such an stupid jock in high school. "If Special Agent Todd doesn't stop making those noises, I'm going to start looking at him," he'd warned, because John had been working on his temper, but it was still a work in progress. Maybe it always would be. 

Maybe he'd always be the guy who would dash into the library to face down a maniac with a gun when he should be rescuing his daughter and getting her the hell out of danger. 

Maybe he should apologize to his daughter for being mad at her and admit he was bisexual. Self-examination had never been a strong suit for him, but anyone who liked gay sex as much as he did couldn't keep claiming he was straight as an arrow.

~~~

Sometimes even the president had to make his own meals, which in this instance meant hitting the switch on the coffee pot and sticking two pieces of bread in the toaster. James was pulling butter and jam out of the refrigerator when the door to the residence opened, and John stuck his head in. "Sir, okay if I come in?"

"Of course."

He disappeared, and James could hear him telling whoever was on duty that it was okay, the president was awake, before he came inside, firmly shutting the door behind him.

"Do you want toast? Coffee?"

"No, sir."

John looked good, in one of the dark suits that every Secret Service agent wore. More to the point, he looked refreshed and alert, not stressed and miserable as he had been when he showed up yesterday. "Did you sleep well?"

"I slept great. Thank you for letting me stay." He had kept walking across the living area and to the kitchen, not stopping until he was right next to James, in his personal space. "I woke up thinking of Camp David," he said, his voice dropping low and rough. 

"You remember?"

Clearly he did, because John cupped the back of James' head and brought their lips together, kissing him with a passionate intensity that curled James' toes. "Would you really have let this go?"

"If it was the best thing for you. If this was what caused the memory loss." A tightness loosened in James' chest at the realization that he wouldn't have to give up John. 

"It wasn't." John shook his head. "I don't think anything specific did, other than getting knocked down. Or maybe I needed to go back to Afghanistan because I was so messed up and I needed to be reminded how far I've come. I've never really believed that I deserved this new life, but I love it and I want it. It's crazy and risky, and I'm going to do my absolute best to make sure it never blows up in our faces, but I don't need to forget it or hide from it. Losing you wouldn't have been the best thing for me." 

"I didn't want to lose you. And you do deserve this. You deserve far more than I can give you."

"You gave me honesty about why you need me. I know that wasn't an easy thing to admit."

"I should have said it long ago. You should know how important you are to me."

"Ditto."

James raised his eyebrows. "Ditto?"

"You're the one who's good with words, sir. You know that. I think I've already exhausted my quota for the rest of the year." He stroked the side of James' face, rubbed his thumb along his lower lip. "I'd love to start something, but I know you have early morning meetings and there are always donuts in the briefing room on Monday."

"Enjoy a glazed for me." 

"Chocolate, sir. Always chocolate." 

With a groan, James cupped the back of John's neck, bringing their foreheads together. It felt so good for John to touch him casually, to be able to touch him in return, to not worry about how John would react. "Some people might think making sexual innuendos based on my skin color is dated." 

"I may always be a work in progress, sir. I think you know that." His voice softened. "I hope you're willing to keep working on me." 

"Always, John. Always." He released his hold on John's neck, stepping back. "See you in the Oval Office."

"I'll be there," John promised, as he walked away. He paused before opening the door. "People are going to know I spent the night here. I'm thinking about doing another thing, this time for Emily's blog. I figure if I've got to talk to the press, my daughter might as well get the credit."

"I trust you, John. Let me know when I should watch."

~~~

"Hi, I'm Emily Cale and this is my videoblog."

"And I'm Cottia Kourakis, welcoming all my viewers."

"We're here with my dad, John Cale, a member of the President's Secret Service."

"John's an American hero. People saw the news that he was knocked down by a car on Saturday, and want to know how he's doing."

"And I am here to talk about it, as just me, John Cale. I am not representing the Secret Service in any official capacity.

"I got knocked down by a car on Saturday morning. People probably saw that in the news. I'm told that I should say something about it, that people want to know I'm okay. I did get a little… messed up. I had problems with my memory. But my family and friends were there for me. My daughter of course," he reached out, ruffling Emily's hair, and her camera jiggled as she batted back at him, "my ex and some of the Secret Service guys, and especially Roger Dawson from my old unit, and James and Alison Sawyer.

"Anyway, I am fine now, and I am very lucky to be where I am, and to have the people around me that I do, but this whole incident made me conscious of how many vets don't have any kind of support in their lives. We've been talking peace, really lasting world peace, and I wanted to call on the members of Congress, both houses, and also President Sawyer, that it's time to get the Veterans Administration in better shape and working for our veterans as it should. Twenty-two American veterans kill themselves every day, and that should not be happening.

"And the spouses and families of our veterans, they need our support too. I know I haven't always been an easy person to be around, that those three tours impacted me more than I've been willing to admit. We need to do better. We can do better. So call or email your congresspeople, okay? Let them know you want to see change. 

"Okay, that's good." John waved his hand at his throat. "Cut, right?" 

Emily turned her phone toward herself, did a log off, followed by Cottia. 

"That was great, Dad," she said, hugging him. 

"You know people are going to love you even more than they do, right?" Cottia asked. "Being vulnerable, asking for help for veterans, it fits in great with your image." 

John pressed his forehead on the top of Emily's head, gave a small groan. "I'm just me. No image." He looked at Cottia. "Thank you for meeting us, and thank you again for not posting that footage of me." 

"Dad, what footage?"

"I ran into Cottia when I had amnesia and I ended up saying, well, a rude thing. That wouldn't have looked good, to have a Secret Service Agent being hostile to the press."

"I've had worse," Cottia admitted. "That's a large part of why you don't talk to the press, isn't it? You don't trust yourself."

"Public speaking—" John shrugged, ruffled Emily's hair. "That's Emily's skill. My tongue gets away from me. Anyway, thanks again." He held out his hand to her. 

Cottia looked at his hand, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for including me and letting me crash your daughter's blogging."

"I owed you one." He draped his arm around Emily's shoulders. "And now I've got your Mom's permission to have dinner with you before I drop you home. We've got a few things to talk about." 

Cottia smiled, apparently undisturbed by the polite dismissal. "You know my number, text me any time." 

John nodded, but didn't commit, though he did enjoy watching her walk away. She did have great legs. "What do you want to eat? I want to talk to you about some things, and I'm going to try to do a better job than your grandparents ever did with me."

Emily contemplated for a moment. John waited for her to say burgers. "Sushi?"

He laughed. "Sure." He stood, lifting her bodily and putting her on his shoulder as she giggled. She was getting too mature, too tall to let him do this much longer, but for now it felt good, to have his life and his baby girl back. 

And hopefully the blogging would work well for James and his reputation, make sure no one thought too much about John spending the night at the White House. Maybe he should have talked to Chris about what he'd planned to say, but political strategizing unnerved him. Instinct tended to work for him; John trusted that it would again this time. 

~~~

"I love this guy," Chris said happily, and James bit his lip to stifle his agreement. "He's such a natural."

"You think this is good?" James had been able to watch the segment live before his dinner commitment, but was pleased that Chris had been able to swing by the residence in the late evening so they could watch it again.

"Sure. You know there are people other than the military industrial complex who oppose your peace plan, regular folks who think that America needs to be strong and that serving in the military is a worthy and honorable profession. John's got the military cred to highlight that it can be very destructive for our veterans. This would be a good time to introduce that bill you've been talking about, to downsize our military and start a vigorous job retraining program." 

"I'll talk to the potential sponsors we've lined up."

"Do you think John would testify for any congressional hearings on the bill?"

"Possibly. Talk first to Roger Dawson to see if he recommends anyone. He works with veterans' groups."

Chris looked startled, which was bizarrely satisfying. He spent most of his life thinking about how different groups would respond; it was rare for James to surprise him. "Roger Dawson? Speaker Raphelson's nephew?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, it might play very well. It would certainly show you're willing to be collaborative to help our troops." He made a note on his phone. "Are you sure John never wants to go into politics himself? I've got friends who would love to help him get started. Or he would be great on those celebrity reality shows."

"John's very committed to his Secret Service career."

"Too bad. Well, good for you, right sir?"

"Yes, good for me," James agreed, more relieved than he would ever admit to Chris or anyone else except perhaps Alison or John himself. Confessing his need to John had been unplanned but freeing, especially John's calm acceptance and admission that he was struggling himself. They were indeed all a bit messed up, he and John and Emily. Spending hours under threat of death wasn't a light experience to brush away. 

But even with amnesia, John had turned to him, trusted him. And now he was back to himself, ready to be at James' side, to protect him. That was all James needed.

~ the end ~

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-inspired by Channing Tatum's movie The Vow, though I always love a good amnesia trope. My thanks to Katbear for military discussions and to Seaward for betaing.


End file.
